


Dead is the New Sexy

by Writcraft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Episode: The Abominable Bride, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 02:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5650018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I am aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence”</i> </p><p>When Sherlock goes deep inside himself, Moriarty’s always waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead is the New Sexy

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a bit of filthy solo Moriarty wanking porn inspired by _The Abominable Bride_. Then things got deep and Sherlock got involved. Spoilers for TAB and previous seasons.

When you go there, he’s always ready to meet you. He’s like a virus working his way through your brain and licking into your soul. He can die a thousand times and he’ll still be inside you, etched into the part of your brain you try to shutter off from things that are good, things that are logical, things that make sense.

He stretches out on the sheets in your room. White cotton, recently purchased and rarely used – creased just enough to tell you he’s been waiting for less than hour. The room is heavy with his scent and your breath mingles with his. The dust dances on the sunbeams. It’s been a while, after all. You’ve been away for a very long time. 

He smiles.

“Miss me?”

You always do. He shouldn’t be there but somehow, in your darkest times, he always is. Perhaps that’s when you enjoy each other the most. You wonder what that says about you, most of all.

“To the contrary.” Your mouth is dry from the dust in the room and you can’t move.

“Come, now.” He’s taken the liberty of stripping himself bare and he’s stretched out before your eyes. There’s a new mark on his torso, just above his left hip. You wonder how it got there and resist the urge to move closer to investigate. It’s what he wants and you can almost imagine him sliding a knife through his skin to mark himself just to give you a reason to _touch_. “Don’t be like that, Sherlock.” It’s sing-song and needling. “You’re the one that brought me here.”

His fingers slide down his stomach and he stretches out, luxuriating in the way you can’t tear your eyes away from him. “That’s it, honey.” His voice shifts, high and breathy. “Why don’t you take a good, long look?”

He’s laughing now, fingers circling his cock as he watches you. He’s long and hard, stroking himself slowly in an effort to tease himself as much as you. Just as it always does, the sight of him derails you and this – this is why you _don’t_. This is why you try not to think of these things. You know he sees it. You know he hears the breath catch in your throat and observes the heat which rises from your neck to your cheeks. You know he can read you just as you read him and your body is determined to betray you in these moments. Bodies are weak, fallible things. It’s a curse of being human.

Nevertheless, you try to resist even when you already know it’s futile. “You broke into my flat. Get out.”

“Make me.” He’s still laughing, legs spread and his hand working so you can see every inch of him sliding between his fingers. “I’m not exactly uninvited. You gave me the key.”

You want to close your eyes and look away from him but there’s an invisible string which pulls you closer to the bed. It’s been so long. So long since you succumbed. He’s really enjoying himself now, his prick slick at the tip and his lips damp and enticing as his tongue slides over them, his eyes never leaving yours. He knows how to push your buttons like nobody else. Even when you shut him out he breaks down your defences and exploits your weakness for the taste of a restless heart beat against your tongue. As much as you try to keep them hidden, he knows your desires. 

“Don’t you want to touch?” He’s watching you slide off your jacket and scarf and he sees the way your fingers tremble. He’s offering himself to you, his body twisted in your direction and the steady movement of his palm against his cock making you fumble.

You collect yourself and turn back to him, drawing a seat close enough to touch but not reaching out. You press your chin to your fingers and meet his gaze, head on. “I never want to touch you.” It’s the truth, in a way.

His lips curve downwards and he pouts as only he can. He swipes his thumb across the head of his cock and pushes his fingers into his mouth, watching you. It sends a jolt of heat through your body, the way his fingers stretch his lips and the sound he makes as he gets them wet. When they leave his lips they’re slick with saliva and they send your heart racing. 

“Well that’s rude.” He rubs his slick thumb over his bottom lip and stares. “Maybe I should touch you, Sherlock?” His voice thickens and stretches out, sliding through your veins like a drug. He drops his hand from his mouth and his fingers reach for your, his words leaving his mouth with harsh, spit-slick syllables. “I _suppose_ I could get on my knees for you. I could help you out with your not so little problem.” He laughs and his eyes linger on the bulge in your trousers. When he looks up at last his voice is high and taunting again. “Or you could just fuck me. I know how much you like doing that.”

“I despise it. I despise you.” Your words are hopeless because even as you say them, you’re moving closer. His damp fingers grasp yours and the touch is like candle flames licking against your skin. 

“Isn’t that what makes it so good between us? We think the same way, you and me. You enjoy hating me far too much. It’s why you keep me here, after all.” He tuts when you shift onto the bed and he reaches for you, his breath hot and smelling faintly of wine when he whispers in your ear. “Do you remember when you kept me in chains? I think you’re _obsessed_ with me.”

“You’re irrelevant to me.” You catch his wrist and hold his hand above his head, rolling onto him. You note the way his breath leaves him with a gasp and try to think about this with your usual clinical precision. This is just a normal, bodily function. It's pedestrian and dull. There's nothing to be gained from doing this with him. 

"You're overthinking things again." He shakes his head, disappointed.

You circle your fingers around his wrist and tighten them until his breathing becomes ragged and his eyes are dark pools of arousal. He’s always enjoyed it like this and you – oh, you’ve enjoyed it too. “You mean nothing.” You say it again, in the hope that if you repeat yourself it might be true. 

“I mean _everything_.” His words leave him with a hiss and he tugs you down, licking into your mouth and kissing you with force. You answer him back with a kiss of your own, fighting against him even now. When one game is lost, you can still win the other. Your mouth leaves his and bites down on the spot on the base of his neck. It’s where he likes to be bitten and it’s where you like him to hurt. You'd hurt him everywhere if you could and perhaps that's what scares you most of all.

“This is the last time.” You kiss him again, hot and deep on the lips. You kiss him like he’s someone else as his body shifts beneath yours and he presses against you – hard, naked and perspiring.

“It’s never the last time.” He’s laughing, soft and low against your skin. His hands are free now and he’s turning you over, moving down your body and unbuckling your trousers. He pulls them down with a deft hand and frees your cock so he can slide his tongue over the tip and watch you at the same time. “It’s just the beginning. You’ll always come back to me.”

“There won’t be a next time.” You mean it. Really, you do. 

“Oh, darling.” He’s laughing now, his eyes locking with yours. “There’s _always_ a next time. You just can’t stand to be without me.” 

Your hips shift up towards him, your body betraying you again. He runs his tongue over the length of your cock and holds your gaze as he makes your skin damp with his tongue. He sucks you down into his mouth, his head bobbing up and down and a groan of pleasure falling from his lips. It sends vibrations through your body and you can feel the beads of perspiration on your forehead. You wipe them away and close your eyes, moving towards him again until his mouth leaves you and the cool air in the room ghosts over your sensitive prick.

“Oh no you don’t.” He scratches your torso until you move your arm from your face and look at him. “You’re not going to pretend I’m somebody else. I know how you feel about that doctor of yours.” His fingers move higher, tapping against your chest where your heart beats wildly. “Are you in _love_?” He laughs and it’s just the wrong side of sane. “What do you think he’d say if he could see you like this?”

“Don’t.” You move to push him away but then he’s back crowding your space. His hands press you back against the bed and he’s sucking you into his mouth and you don't want to fight it anymore. In this room in these moments he’s every drug that’s ever pumped through your veins. He’s every mistake, every dark thought and every bad thing you’ve ever done. You almost want to weep with the combination of heady pleasure and the kind of touch you haven’t felt in so long. It's the kind of touch you've been yearning for of late, against your better judgment. There's a lesson to be learned there, you're sure of it. “You’re dead. This isn’t real.”

He sucks you harder until you're dizzy with the sensation of his lips around your cock, his motions drawing undignified grunts and groans from your lips as you hold him down. You push your fingers through his hair and there's a strange burst of pleasure when you feel all of him there - hot and warm - whole. You grip onto him tighter and only release him when he nudges against your palm, pulling up and staring at you. His lips are swollen rose-red and his mouth glistens with saliva.

“How can I be dead when you’re still keeping me alive?” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand carelessly and cocks his head to the side, smiling. “I think you want to fuck me.”

There’s a precipice and you’re standing at the edge with Moriarty watching you and waiting for you to decide. 

It’s been so long.

It’s the last time.

It's been _too_ long.

You push off the remainder of your clothes and move over him. You use your fingers to open him up until he mewls beneath you and says your name with song-like intonation, his body shivering back against the sheets. You taste the salty tang of his skin beneath your tongue and let your senses guide you as he clenches around your fingers and you push and curl them until he’s babbling in your ear and everything is just hard, heavy breathing and an overwhelming desire. He’s the worst kind of addiction, Moriarty. You’re a man who knows all about those and yet, he’s something you never anticipated. 

When you’re inside him, he meets your eyes. His face is twisted with anger, rage and something else entirely. You wonder what he sees behind your eyes and imagine it’s the very worst of you. 

“You know,” he says as you fuck him harder, every move tinged with a desperate urgency. “I don’t think you’re on the side of the angels anymore.”

It’s just enough to bring you over the edge. You bite away the rest of his words with heavy, breath-broken kisses and you taste copper blood, salt and wine. He kisses you back and when you close your eyes and fall against him, you can still hear him laughing.

*

When you open your eyes, John’s looking at you. His face is crinkled in a frown and he looks disappointed. A wave of shame crashes over you and you bring your fingers to your lips. They carry the scent of him, still fresh against your skin.

“Miss me?”

And it's Moriarty's words, falling from your lips where his kisses still burn.

_~Fin~_


End file.
